


Bloodlust

by deadestofdoves (sewohayami)



Category: The Legend of Zelda: Skyward Sword
Genre: Blood and Gore, Character Study, Ghirahim is neither sane nor a human being, M/M, Masochism, Sadism, Sexualized Violence, Torture, also he is physically genderless, one sided Ghirahim/Link, this fic contains nothing that a sane human being would consider to be sex, with a side of Demise/Ghirahim
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2019-01-26 02:50:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12547136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sewohayami/pseuds/deadestofdoves
Summary: Ghirahim character study. After their first encounter, Ghirahim fantasizes about Link. Ghirahim is also an genderless, psychopathic living weapon so his idea of a sexual fantasy is... extremely questionable.





	Bloodlust

**Author's Note:**

> So I recently finished Skyward Sword and Ghirahim is my new fave. Every single line of his is wonderfully, hilariously extra, and I do love a good sadistic villain (Also... are we still playing a children's game here because I'm pretty sure that guy just said he was going to torture me and get off on it???)
> 
> Anyway, most people probably already know Ghirahim mentions the "Red String of Fate" that binds lovers in Japanese culture... There's another cultural reference here, red spider-lillies are known as "Hellflowers" 地獄花 "Flowers of the Dead" 死人花 or "Higan Flowers" 彼岸花 (Higan being the far shore of the river between here and the afterlife). I probably shouldn't make multilingual references, but it just seemed very in character.

In the palace of the lord of demons, Ghirahim reclined on a marble throne. With a shower of glowing shards, he shed his human clothing and body, letting the torchlight dance across the shimmering black and silver of his metallic skin. He admired the beauty of his own form, a weapon finely honed from steel and carbon. Truly, he was a marvel of a creature, a work of the gods themselves. He thanked them for giving him the shape that served his master so well.

His thoughts strayed to the boy who he had fought earlier, his delicious look of fear as Ghirahim’s cold fingers had dug into his shoulder. He felt the resonating afterglow of the pain in his body where the goddess’ sword had hit him, recalling the concussive ring of metal on metal and luxuriating in the ache across his ribs. Almost as blissful as his hand striking the boy’s all-too-pretty face and causing an angry red mark to blossom beneath it. The battle had been a sweet indulgence, true, he had promised not to murder the boy, but the denial of completion made it all the sweeter.

He had promised not to murder the boy _yet_.

He sunk back into his throne, fingers curling and uncurling as he recalled the battle. The tip of his sword grazing, tracing a thin red line across the hero’s bicep. He shuddered at the memory of licking the blood from the blade, the metallic bitterness just an appetizer for the pleasure to come. Seizing the boy’s weapon and deftly plucking it from his grip, feeling the solid weight of the young man’s sword with his own hands. Another flick of his dark blade and red began to trickle down the hero’s cheek, earning him a gasp of pain that caused something deliciously obscene to tense inside him. Next time, when he had beaten the hero to the ground, he would summon a hundred fluttering razor shards and hear that precious gasp over and over again until it became a crescendo of screams.

But he still wouldn’t _kill_ the boy. No, he thought, his hands roaming over his thighs and chest, how could he kill when there was still so much to be enjoyed? He groaned, tensing and untensing under his own touch, savoring the coolness of his own smooth skin. The boy should be grateful. The string of fate that bound lovers, blood-red and razor thin, entwined them, and Ghirahim intended to show the young hero every bit of his _love_. Would the boy know how to treasure the moment if iron hands curled around his delicate throat, to savor his last, agonized breaths being shuttered by an immortal? In his current state he was lamentably wild and uncivil, which would just make the process of teaching him to show respect all the more satisfying. He would scream until blood ran down his throat, and then with the ragged remnants of his voice, he would learn to say “Lord Ghirahim”. Perhaps even “Master”...

And _yet_ , he would not kill the boy. As much of a tempting and delicious distraction the young man was, Ghirahim was devoted to his own master and his mission. Besides, he longed to witness the look on the boy’s face as his master devoured the soul of his little goddess friend. Despair would make the taste of his blood much sweeter, the rage in his cries burn much hotter. His futile blows would rain against steel flesh, causing less pain than sheer pleasure, the resounding clash of metal an irresistible provocation. They would fight until every inch of the hero was bruised and bloody, an endless lacework of fresh wounds on peeling scabs on tantalizingly pink scars. And then Ghirahim would take his rightful place, by his master’s side forevermore.

He writhed at the vision of ecstasy in his head, tongue lolling from his mouth as he gasped. His master would surely reward him, indulge him, sapping the hero’s lifeblood with a thousand brightly colored cuts. The boy would stagger across a battlefield painted with spatters of blood, like the spider lilies that grew on the roads to hell. The weapon would plunge into his flesh over and over again, the blade hot and slick and dripping red. Mad laughter spilled from his lips as his fingers twitched and seized with unquenchable lust.

Lost in feverish, vivid fantasy, Ghirahim cried out, his body resonating with pleasure at the moment his master at last tore open the hero from gut to shoulder and drenched him in a river of viscera and blood.


End file.
